After that day, I stayed close to my family, soaking in the simple, everyday moments that made up their lives. Dad used the money Susanna had left behind to rebuild the company, and before long, the crew had their jobs back. Mom spent her days in the park, painting alongside Yvan, who was slowly starting to speak. It was just a few words, but it was progress. Every evening, dad would finish work and come pick them up, and we would all head home for dinner together. Life was not extravagant, but it was a steady, warm kind of happiness, the type that was fulfilling and worth experiencing. I thought the past had finally faded, that the storm had passed. Then, the last bit of news about Susanna came in the form of a video that went viral. It started with her, on a livestream, dragging a drunken York into the passenger seat of her car. She was calm—eerily calm—as she drove them toward the cliffs by the sea. The setting sun cast long shadows, and her voice, smooth and steady, cut thr
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